Finding Heart
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: Not an angel. Not a brother. Not a boyfriend. How three men's use of emotional duct tape can be more effective than you'd think. Sherlock/Avengers crossover. Loki moves into 221B, and shenanigans go down.
1. Anger

~*~Please play the dramatic music of your choice because here. It. Is! The beginning of Loki's adventures with John and Sherlock, as laid out in my past works _Schemes and Scissors, Loki the Innocent Bystander, _and _The Flying Skull. _This piece will collect them all together, connect them with something that looks like a plot, and provide plenty of fun and angst for all. This will be set as chronologically as possible, for the first bunch of chapters at least. If anything appears out of order I'll let you know. Oh, and the chapters will probably end up being individual short stories, but with an overarching plot.  
Warnings: Swearing, probably. Eventually.  
Musical Muse: My special playlist of Avengers and Sherlock songs.  
Disclaimer: I am not the original creators, or anyone else connected to these two fandoms. I just have this little AU playground that I'm very pleased with.  
Much thanks and adoration towards my beta, the approver and giver of ideas, Kat.

~*~ Chapter 1: Anger ~*~

There was so much anger.

Anger was festering, flowing through the open air around that strange meeting place, the landmark that Loki's army hadn't managed to destroy. Anger, directed by all present, towards him, chained and still, waiting for the anger to peak and destroy him. He dreaded the anger, and yet accepted their rage, head bowed under the weight of all the wrath and hate.

Fury, naturally, was furious, angry at Thor for desiring to take Loki and the Tesseract from his grasp. The leader-soldier was livid about what happened to his home city, the metal man at the destruction of his home, the angry green one…well, he was always angry. Loki just never appreciated how angry he could be – his back still hurt from that underestimation.

The clever woman and his hawk still held lingering rage towards him for what he had done to the warrior-hawk. Loki knew they were laughing at him and this situation, at how far he had fallen, again. He was almost glad the archer was wearing dark glasses; neither wished to meet the other's eyes.

And Thor. Thor was finally, truly, _properly_ angry at him; anger that Loki had witnessed many times before, but had never been directed at himself, not like this. It was the stifling heat before a violent summer storm, the space of a breath between the blaze of light and slam of thunder. It was held back for the moment, but Loki had his suspicions of what would happen once he was alone with Thor.

He also suspected it would be horribly similar to a punishment he previously experienced at another's hands.

For so long Thor had believed, had held hope that his brother would see the error of his ways, would return and fight at his side. Now, Loki could feel the anger and betrayal that radiated off his false brother, so strong that Loki could not meet his eyes.

But the greatest anger, the anger Loki feared the most…came not from any mortal fighter, nor from his brother. The Cube, the Tesseract – she was beyond angry, beyond furious. She held the unrivaled anger of all the cosmos, and it was directed solely at Loki.

It was too much to assume that she would go quietly. Being returned to captivity after so long a time of freedom and adventure, Loki would have anticipated something, even if he hadn't felt – through the lingering connection of his mind to the Chitauri weapon – her drawing power, focusing and concentrating it, waiting to release it at the best opportunity. She was complacent as she was moved to her new holding cell, the one that, Loki presumed, would attempt to funnel her power into transporting himself and Thor back to Asgard. Loki suspected she would simply settle for killing them both.

Was it too much to hope that he would not survive this time?

Thor was exchanging farewells with his teammates, promising to return as soon as possible. Loki wondered how they would react to the falling of their comrade, at a time when they thought they were safe, triumphant.

Thor approached Loki, and extended the device holding the seething Tesseract with an angry and over-demanding look. Unable to meet his eyes, Loki looked down at the device that would seal his fate. He could feel the throb of energy washing over him, daring him to grab hold and drag him away from here. Drag him to his death, more like, and Thor along with him.

Loki's hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists. Would dying – really dying this time – be so bad? What had he to fear from death, he who had faced The Void of space and the horrors it hid? He wanted to embrace the nothingness, to find somewhere he could simply _rest. _Where there were no more power plays, no more monsters, no more heartache. Somewhere he need not face those who hated him.

He reached out his bound hand and grasped the handle. Thor twisted his side, activating the device to incite the Tesseract to take them home. Loki could feel the rush of power cresting, felt it peaking like a wave about to break and drown him. The jab of the Tesseract's mind against his confirmed what he feared: She had no intention of taking them to Asgard. There was only death ahead.

Loki breathed deeply through the muzzle and closed his eyes. He was resigned to whatever death awaited him, had been waiting for it since The Void swallowed him. Only now did he realize how deeply he wanted it all to end. He was ready.

In the half second before the power peaked and burst, Loki opened his eyes and met his false-brother's for the last time.

Thor's bright eyes widened. He realized what Loki intended to do. He opened his mouth to speak-

Loki never found out what Thor meant to say. He yanked the device from Thor as the power-bubble burst, and felt the familiar stretch_twist_pull_SNAP. _It snatched at him, pulling him wildly, excruciatingly, and uncontrollably away from everything he ever known.

The last he saw was Thor's anguished face, before he was dragged away, and welcome oblivion covered his eyes.

The blast that rocked the park reminded Thor – horribly – of the destruction of the Rainbow Bridge. It threw him off his feet, the taste of unleashed magic choking him. He heard cries from his new warrior-companions, but he had no time to fret about them over his worry about his brother. The chaos seemed to last an eternity, until at last it subsided, leaving ruin in its wake. Even as he struggled to sit up, shaking hair from his eyes, he could see that Loki was gone. Again.

But it was not like before, when he saw his brother fall before his eyes, watching as he vanished into The Void. Where his brother once stood, there was now a crater, glazed from heat and magic, disconcertingly lacking his brother's form. His stomach knotted as he jolted to his feet, struggling over to the spot. He ignored the science-mages' cries and warnings as he stood where his brother had vanished.

Loki was gone. Very much gone. Yanked from Thor's grasp yet again, just after they had been reunited for so brief a time. Dust and magic drifted in the air, choking him and tightening his throat. Stinging at his empty eyes.

Thor stormed past his teammates, towards the angry leader. Stark, Banner, and Rogers were helping one another to their feet, Barton and Romanoff still collecting themselves from where they had been thrown. He advanced on Fury and Selvig, who were still struggling to rise. Loki had escaped them, and the sooner they were on their feet again, the sooner they would be able to retrieve him. And the Tesseract.

Loki had taken the Tesseract, or the Tesseract had taken him, but without either, Thor was trapped on Midgard, without his brother and without his way home. He was stranded, but at the moment, that was the furthest worry from his mind.

"What has happened!? Where has he gone?!" Thor barked as he stormed toward Fury. The bright day grew dark as he towered over the pair, watching as Selvig scrambled to retrieve information from one of their flat devices.

Fury rose behind Selvig, his eye fixed on Thor. "What does it look like happened?" he questioned dangerously. "He escaped. I _thought_ I warned you that this would happen if you tried to take him!"

"It was _your _device he used to escape. Now _Where Has He Gone?_" Clouds converged overhead as the rest of the team collected themselves and approached behind him. The Captain laid a hand on Thor's shoulder – for support or restraint, he could not tell. Fury leveled one last glare at him before turning to Selvig.

"Well Doc, where's he gone?" Selvig did not answer immediately. He was quiet. Much too quiet.

The minutes stretched long as Selvig stared at his devices, turned to check others, and the tension in the air rose with every second. Thor's new warrior team converged around him, and he could feel their unease radiating off them. The wait stretched until Thor though he would burst. Finally, Selvig looked up. He wouldn't meet Thor's eyes.

"That response…the reading went off the charts. He couldn't…there's no way…" Selvig stopped and swallowed hard, and met Thor's eyes. Thor was shocked to see just how much pain there was looking back at him. "He…he couldn't have survived. No one could."

"What are you saying?!" Thor snapped. He knew what was said, could see it in his eyes and feel it growing in his heart, but he could not accept it. Not again.

"I'm sorry Thor." Selvig whispered gravelly. "Loki's gone."

~*~For anyone wondering, Sherlock and John _do _show up eventually. In a couple chapters. Call it enticement to keep you guys reading.  
Reviews are fuel for the plotbunnies. Please feed them.


	2. Alone

~*~ This chapter shouldn't have been so late. I blame myself, my laptop, the holidays, and the internet, or my lack thereof. Yep.  
But I'm glad you guys are showing interest in what little there's been, if the feedback is any indication. You all rock my socks.  
Musical Muse: Chicago Soundtrack  
Warnings: Depressing thoughts, violence, Mrs. Hudson being the bad-ass old lady we know and love.  
Disclaimer: If I owned any of the characters here, I think I could afford better internet.  
Thanks go to my beta Kat, as usual, and more thanks goes to Ani, who was there to give advice when I really needed it. Much love to you both.

~*~ Chapter 2: Alone ~*~

The cold wind snapped at Loki's cheek as he turned the corner to the next shadowy and endless street. He did not know how long he had traveled, only that he had wandered far from where he had landed. The buildings were taller, more suited to businesses rather than households, and they stretched ahead and behind and all around him like an endless canyon of metal and glass. Cold, unwelcoming eyes stared down as Loki roamed the dark and near-deserted streets looking for accommodation. If worse came to worse, he could always break into a place, demand the inhabitants host him, and then–

Loki lost that thought when he remembered that would not end well for him. He had no way of enforcing his will by way of physical or magical threats. He was completely drained, entirely empty. He was simply too weak, and his powers were as well as gone.

When the Tesseract parted him from Thor, he did nothing to protect himself, did not prepare for the disparaging journey by casting some protective spell or even attempt to shield his mind. Loki remembered being pulled and stretched, the pain in his body and his mind tearing and battering him about in an all-too familiar manner. Quite suddenly, he had been released, cast off, to lie in agony and wonder just why he never did die when he expected to.

Bifrost-free travel had very unfortunate consequences – the uttermost that one ended up feeling like a minced piece of meat once they had arrived. It was a feeling that lasted an undeterminable amount of time and was what painfully told him that he was still alive.

The last time Loki had been delivered to this realm, there had been the rush of adrenaline, the taste of freedom, and the flavor of vengeance on his tongue. Without any of those excitements, he could truly feel how battered and drained the events of the last few days had made him. Between the unscheduled trip, the smashing beast, and all the other indignities he suffered, perhaps it was not far beneath him to admit – if only to himself – that he was quite ready for a rest.

When he first landed, wrecked with pain, he had missed that his metal restraints had vanished. As had his clothes. He didn't realize at first that his magic was also gone – only after he attempted to create new coverings did he understand just what little he had. The Tesseract truly had taken everything from him, and left him as bare and vulnerable as the day The All-Father stole him. He was alone, truly alone, without any minds invading his own or voices pleading uselessly at him while he was imprisoned and awaiting the return to Asgard. The peace was calming, yet frightening, as he was entirely unused to the feeling.

Loki had initially been unceremoniously dumped in what appeared to be someone's garden, and had to resort to petty thievery and burglary to gain himself adequate clothing and monetary units. That was the first indication to him that he was still on Midgard: the markings on the seemingly-useless slips of paper resembled those he'd seen while in hiding.

He had fled in a hurry when the domicile's occupants returned unexpectedly, and he took to wandering the streets. The night continued its cycle, and the roads he saw before him gradually emptied. Still he walked, unable to calm his raging mind.

For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. No longer was he the ignored son of a king, nor a tool for someone else's use. No one would come after him – Thor and his team would assume he'd escaped, or died. Thanos could no longer see into his mind as easily as peering at a book now that the scepter that bound them was out of his hands. All strings had been cut, all ties unbound.

There would be no escape from this realm. There were no paths from this realm he could access without magical aid, which he did not have. He was practically mortal now, stripped and weak and at the mercy of this cruel world. The All-Father couldn't be happier if he'd planned it himself.

Loki was free, but he felt no elation. He was just as trapped here as he would be in some prison cell in Asgard – lone, helpless, and unwanted.

An unexpected noise drew Loki from his thoughts. His aimless wanderings had led him into a narrowly enclosed alley, and his guard had not been up, leaving him in a very unwelcome position. If he had been concerned for his safety, he would have berated himself for his foolishness and drawn some form of weapon. Instead, Loki turned and faced the scruffiest-looking batch of warriors he'd ever seen.

Loki was almost insulted. He was threat that had nearly brought his bro- Thor and his team to their knees, he who had almost destroyed Jotenheim, and the only response from this strange city was to attack him with brutish thugs. He was a god, damnit, weak or not, and such a puny threat was a slight to his perceived greatness.

He ignored the fact that, in his weakened state, they could quite easily overpower him. Though he longed for death, he did not wish for such an embarrassing end that would meet him if these thugs had their way with him. It would be most undignified.

"Whas a scrabby 'unt like yourse doin 'ere, 'ay?" Even a lifetime of studying and learning All-Tongue left Loki blinking in confusion at the garbled mess that left the largest thug's mouth. The pause it gave him in was clearly enough for one of the tinier minds to decide to attack, and Loki ducked as a glass bottle flew at his head. Thick laughter filled the air, and Loki pulled his lips back in a snarl.

"Do not threaten me, you pathetic imbecile!" he hissed, but his words had little effect. The group moved closer, and Loki's eyes flitted over them all. If he could disable the leader in some way, his psychological hold over them would fade, and they would flee. If he hit the brute on the nose hard enough, the nasal cartilage would crack and –

The resounding whack to the side of his head stopped that thought in its tracks. Loki slammed into the opposite wall with the force of the blow, and before he could recover, more strikes began to rain down upon his body. Without his layers of armor, he felt every impact deep in his bones, and nearly choked himself swallowing his cries of pain. He swung his arm out, attempting to fight back, but his arms were pinned before he hit anyone, and the battering increased.

_It's better this way_, Loki thought as blood began to flow down his face and throat, _To die in battle, not wasting away in a cell or torn apart at Thanos' command. The best part_, his mind quietly whispered as he heard the all-too familiar snick of a knife, _the best part is that Thor will never know._ Loki relaxed, and wondered if this was the final time he would await the inevitable death before him.

"Now stop it, right now. Stop that!" It seemed that Loki's attackers had been joined by a little old lady. Loki slumped against the wall, and cracked an eyelid to confirm that, yes, a matron was staring down the gang. Loki's humiliation had reached new heights.

"Jackson Jacob Hansen you get your butt home right now before I tell your father what you get up to in the middle of the night! Terrorizing tourists, for shame! And Zachary Orion Tool, your mother would beat you silly if she knew you were helping him! If you boys don't leave that man alone right now…" The boys watched with horror as the woman pulled an electric communication device from her satchel, "…I'll call all your mums. Get a move on now." There was no anger or spite in the lady's voice, only scathing motherly disproval. It was quite efficient, as Loki's abusers took off like a scalded pack of mutts.

Loki stayed slumped uncomfortably on the paved ground. It hurt to breathe, he was certainly covered in blood and bruises, and he'd just been thoroughly beaten by a group of adolescents. His dignity had reached an all-time low.

"Poor dear. Are you all right?" Was there a more useless question in all the cosmos? "Of course not, look at the state of you. Can you stand?" The elderly woman was kneeling over him now. She reached out a slightly-shaking hand and rested it on his cheek. Loki would have protested vehemently if he were capable of speech. Or coherent and rational thought.

It was an effort, but after several minutes and a barely-assisting hand, Loki found himself standing again, albeit not very stably. His back was a solid wall of flame, twitching and aching from too many unexpected landings. Cuts, contusions, and bruises covered every inch of his skin. Loki found that it was just too much effort to school his expression into its usual calm mask, and the woman's expression indicated that what was showing on his face was most troubling.

"Oh, poor dear. You're very hurt aren't you?" It would simply be too rude to roll his eyes at her, as he wished to do so. She set a gentle hand on his arm, the closest part of his body she could reach. Even hunched over as he was, he still towered over her.

"Sweetheart, I think you need a doctor." Loki shook his head and tried twitching his arm from her grasp. Her hand remained firm, however – she was clearly much stronger than she appeared.

"I don't…I can't-" Loki struggled and stumbled over his words, trying to convey his great desire not to be in a brightly-lit place where someone could recognize him. The kindly lady seemed to recognize the look on his face, and understanding settled onto hers. She patted his arm gently.

"That's alright, dear. It's perfectly alright. I know someone who can take a look at you; don't worry about one thing. Just come along…" She began to lead, and, almost gladly, Loki began following her out of the enclosed alleyway. "It's just a few more blocks, and they're probably still awake, those boys…they keep such odd hours but that's to be expected, really. But you know, sometimes I wish…"

The babble of words washed over him, and Loki was unable to stop himself from allowing this treatment. Everything hurt, he felt like he hadn't slept in weeks, and perhaps the pity of a stranger should not go unheeded, if she was willing to assist and aid him. She – ("Call me Mrs. Hudson, there's a good lad.") – seemed formidable enough, but she was elderly, and it would not be difficult to escape her clutches should the time come for escape.

Streets, some stairs, an interior hallway Loki was led through and into a pleasantly decorated sitting room. With some relief, he settled onto a thickly cushioned seat. Loki rested his tender back against the sofa's cushions and sighed. Mrs. Hudson bustled off down the hall, presumably to find him aid. Or to call the authorities, or even grab a knife and destroy his weakened body once and for all.

But as the minutes passed, as no sounds of oncoming threats or danger reached Loki's ears, all his worries and even pain began to diminish. He was tired, bone tired, and did indeed need somewhere to rest his head, and this kindly woman was offering him just that. Surely there was nothing to fear from a place as thoroughly covered in fabric flowers as this. It would not be unwise to abuse her hospitality for some time.

But…what had he done to deserve this? Nothing, nothing at all. This could just be the honey in the trap, the lure that would drag him to yet another horror. This could not all be without consequence.

Mrs. Hudson came back, without medical aid but with a cup of tea. Loki lowered his eyes as she claimed the seat next to his. "I'm sorry dear. The boys aren't in right now." She set the cup and saucer on the table next to her seat and reached out to lay three soft fingers on Loki's cheek. "You can sleep here tonight, I'm sure John can take a look at you in the morning."

Could the tea be poisoned? Were there truly such kind souls in this world that were willing to care for such wretched scum as he? There were so many questions, but Loki had been choking back more unsaid things in his life than he was willing to acknowledge, and so they remained unsaid. He instead raised his eyes to hers, unable to verbalize any of what was going through his mind. Mrs. Hudson smiled and stroked his cheek.

"Don't worry. Whatever's happened, it's behind you now. Just remember that." Loki stared at her, and she smiled a bit sadly. "Don't think I don't know that look. I know what it is, and I can tell you, time will help. Time, and some tea." She winked at him, and pushed the cup into his hand.

Loki was fairly certain that whatever scenario she was referring to, it was nothing similar to his own. _But, perhaps she is right_, he though as he carefully sipped the tea. _I just need time to plan what I will do next. _The tea was not poisoned.

Mrs. Hudson vanished again, and by the time he finished his tea, she was back with blankets and a proper pillow. Coaxing him down onto his back took some time because it was aching up a storm. Once he was horizontal, waves of tiredness began to wash over him, and he knew he was in danger of falling asleep too quickly. If Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him to become unconscious before striking, she would not have to wait long. He mutely refused the white pills she offered him and quietly reflected that the last time he was on his back, he was in Stark's tower, before the brink of disaster.

"Now, I know you're tired, sweetheart. I realize that. But…I never did catch your name."

Loki's eyes drooped, remembering the last moments he had in the tower, before the plan fell apart and the pain began. Stark had been talking nonsense, flaunting his casual assurance that he and his team would triumph (and he had been right. The agent had been right). The last thing that had been spoken to him, just before it ended. The other person he'd pissed off.

"Phil." Loki whispered. "My name is Phil."

~*~ Well, now everyone who's read _Loki, the Innocent Bystander _knows why Loki's being called Phil. Maybe Loki's hoping Coulson's bad-assery will rub off on him.  
Reviews make me insanely happy. I love hearing from you guys!


	3. Attention

~*~And now for the POV of the character who is most like me: JOHN!  
My thanks as usual to Kat, even if she is a horrible person for keeping me waiting. Sill love her though, she's the Sherlock to my John.

~*~ Chapter Three: Attention ~*~

Most mornings, it was possible to determine Sherlock's mood by his behavior during John's breakfast, and make semi-reasonable assumptions on how the rest of the day would unfold.

If Sherlock was engulfed in experiments, circling John like a dark moon as he tried to finish his toast without ingesting anything unnatural, the day would likely include many more experiments which may or may not call upon John's assistance. If Sherlock was lying on the couch in his pajamas or a state of undress, or worse, sitting at the kitchen table staring at John like he was the most interesting thing in all creation, then the following hours would be filled with mad shouts, lounging geniuses, and a headache for John by the time he could return to his bed in peace. And those were just the days that did not involve interruptions of crime scenes and Sherlock's fits of unpredictability.

John didn't know what to make of the fishbowl filled with black liquid on that particular morning, but deeply hoped that it was just a new piece of an experimental puzzle Sherlock was working on. What that entailed, and just where Sherlock was located, was an equal mystery to John. Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen, or the living room. And it wasn't like Sherlock to leave an experiment unfinished.

Any casual observer would think that John would enjoy a rare moment of peace, when he didn't have to worry that Sherlock would lob a plate at his head, or set a potato on fire, but in truth, John felt a sliver of worry as he boiled water for his tea. With regards to Sherlock, it was always better to know his location rather than try to guess from hundreds of others just where he was.

John's tea was half-steeped when a he belatedly realized that the shower had been running for some time, and unless Sherlock had invented some way to turn the water on and off with a timer, it was a safe bet to say that Sherlock had just finished showering. John breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up the morning paper, finding it whole and complete for once, rather than half-strewn about the flat. Breakfast was moving along accordingly by the time Sherlock finally staggered into the kitchen.

_God, I hope he's wearing trousers this time, _John thought, and refused to look up from the paper while Sherlock stormed around – at least, until he was grabbed by the parietal bones and his head yanked back.

There was a swath of black across his face, like a splash of blood from a head injury. Against the dark liquid, Sherlock's face was bone-white. His hair was still wet and dripped onto John's forehead while Sherlock waited for John's complete attention. But of course, he had it from the moment he touched John.

"John, in your opinion, about how much ink is left on my face? Ten being fresh-applied blackness and one being completely clean?"

John scrutinized his flatmate's face, deeply hoping that there wasn't any ink in the drops still hitting his own head. "About…eight and a half, I'd say."

Sherlock tsk-ed. "You can do better than that."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, eight and three-eighths present."

Sherlock jumped away, dashing down the hall to the bathroom, no doubt to check John's word. John sighed, wondering what the day ahead of him would be like. Sherlock seemed fine – fine for him, of course – at the moment, but for all John knew he had just suggested an end to the experiment, and Sherlock would fall into boredom in five minutes.

John had learned quickly enough to never assume anything about Sherlock's moods. Most of the time, he ended up being wrong anyway.

It wasn't easy living with Sherlock; that fact could not be overlooked. Any normal bloke would have run off by now or at least would have tried to make Sherlock change some of his more annoying or dangerous habits. John had understood right from the start that Sherlock would never change his ways unless it suited him and never bothered trying. The fact that a few barely noticeable adjustments had been made gave John some hope, but he never let himself become too optimistic. Sherlock was unpredictable, untamable, and slightly dangerous.

Sherlock didn't recognize social cues unless he was paying attention for his own deductions and benefit. He didn't care if human parts were left in the fridge, but God forbid any detritus collect on his microscope. He either had no sense of personal space, or he was so distant he may as well be on Mars. He also didn't blink much. John had had another mate like that; it was rather disconcerting.

He was impossible to pin down, physically and emotionally. While Sherlock could not rest until he knew everything about a person, John came to the realization recently that he knew very little about the man himself. And he was strangely content with that. The tall man had his secrets, and was happy to keep them to himself. John wished, more deeply that he'd care to admit, that someday Sherlock would share them with John. He knew the man trusted him with his life, but not with his heart.

Harry would label him whipped in a heartbeat. No reasonable bloke would put up with this hardship for longer than they'd have to, much less for as long as John had. There was no reason for him to do so; he wasn't getting anything from their relationship besides dangerous excitement. Everyone who encountered John with Sherlock inevitably questioned _why_ John stayed around.

John wondered sometimes, too.

Sherlock buried himself in his experiments as soon as John cleared away the breakfast dishes. John left him to his activities, intending to sit in the den and read the morning paper and ignore Sherlock until his assistance was needed again.

Of course he never got the chance, but this time, the interruption didn't come from Sherlock. It was Mrs. Hudson treading up the stairs and tapping gently at the door that pulled him from his much-desired reading.

"Morning, boys!" Their beloved landlady cooed from the door. John nodded and smiled as she walked past him to the kitchen, where he could hear her twittering at Sherlock over the ink bowl. John took the moment of peace to skim the headlines, anticipating that the opportunity wouldn't last.

"John?" John smiled ruefully and lowered his newspaper. "I really hate to bother you dear, but there's a young man downstairs that I think needs medical attention."

Automatic concern jabbed John in the gut. He put the paper aside and stood immediately. "What's happened? Have you called an ambulance?"

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. "No, no dear, I don't think it's anything serious. He's been here all night, and I don't think he's any worse – he just needs some looking-after." When she turned to descend the stairs, John glanced at the kitchen, quite pleased to see that Sherlock's face mirrored at least a fraction of the concern he felt. Bless their landlady's kind heart, but sometimes she didn't seem to be a good judge of character. Sherlock or John would never allow a stranger to spend the night in their flat.

Well, there was that time with Irene, but they realized she was there eventually.

John dashed up to his room for his medical kit before descending the stairs to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting outside her sitting room. "Poor dear's been sound asleep for almost twelve hours. I do believe he needed it." Mrs. Hudson stood by the threshold, letting John enter first.

The young man had been reclining on the sofa facing the door and opened his eyes as John approached. They were bright green, heavily and darkly lidded, and surrounded by dark splotches like bruising, only deeper.

John hadn't lived with World's Only Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes for a year and not learned a thing or two. He knew when someone was faking sleep – Sherlock hadn't needed to explain that to him. John had learned that years ago – and the man on Mrs. Hudson's couch had most certainly been faking.

The young man definitely looked as if he had just escaped a war zone. His long black hair – just like Sherlock's, except straight – was mussed and greasy looking. His sharp face, where it wasn't covered in bruises and cuts, was unhealthily pale. There didn't seem to be any very serious injuries, but John was able to tell there was a fresh layer of wounds over an older, partially healed series. He was also holding himself very gingerly, almost as though he had internal bruises. John wasn't surprised he hadn't slept a wink, with that many injuries.

"Hello." John greeted him with the usual level of doctoral joviality, but was met with a cold shoulder. John would have expected a snarky greeting or any sort of uncomfortable response, but he got nothing at all, even as he approached the couch…just _very _angry silence. John cleared his throat.

"My name is John." He decided it was best to keep talking, and he hoped the man would eventually warm up to him. "I'm a doctor – well, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told you that. Is there anything…serious you need me to look at?" The man was still sitting gingerly, which made John think less of a broken bone type of internal injury and more…other sort of internal injury. The way he still refused to meet John's gaze for more than a second was troubling as well.

"Right…okay." John mumbled, fishing around in his bag for some plasters.

The man remained stony silent as John dabbed at the fresh cuts with rubbing alcohol. John would have expected a hiss like he usually got when he performed this procedure on Sherlock, but the man's continued silence started to worry him. Everything about his countenance, especially the glint he caught when he unsuccessfully tried to meet his gaze again, said what he was apparently refusing to actually say: fury and humiliation and unwillingness to trust. It was all bottled up somewhere in his throat.

The reason for his silence, when he so obviously wished to speak? John was willing to guess there was some stubbornness of Sherlockian proportions contained in this angry young man as well.

Something caught his eye as he went to replace the wet blood-stained tissues he used to clean the cuts. The scabs had been dark against the young man's skin, almost black, but that wasn't surprising. What _was_ surprising was not seeing the blood turn red when it came away on the tissue. It was dark red, almost black, and unnatural enough to raise John's worry further. He tried to meet his eye again, but he was being studiously ignored.

"Could you, erm, lift your shirt? I just want to check…" John trailed off under the gaze the man leveled at him. But rather than quail further, John leveled a glare of his own. He was a doctor, damn it, and he'd dealt with the great Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't about to be scared off by some pretty boy who'd gotten his arse kicked.

"Look, sir, whoever you are – if you're hurt, I need to know, so you better drop the silent treatment, and let me do my job!"

That worked. It was like John had finally worn him down. "My name is Phil." The young man – Phil, apparently – finally whispered. His fingers twisted the ends of the old button-down he was wearing. John waited for him to pull it up, but instead the young man directed an unexpected question at him. "Why…are you doing this?"

"Wha- you mean my job?" John was startled momentarily. The young man shifted, his form becoming tenser, but at the same time more vulnerable. Sherlock would be able to tell exactly what this young man was feeling, but at the moment, John was at a total loss.

"I…just…helping people is what I do, you know?" Since Phil didn't seem to want John to check for injuries on his torso, he settled for putting plasters over any of the contusions that had re-opened after the rubbing alcohol treatment. His skin was so cold.

"It's my job, and…" John shrugged. His answers didn't seem to be satisfying Phil at all, so John finally settled for saying, "You needed help, so I did. Simple as that!" He smiled and held out his hands in a gesture to suggest _What else was I supposed to do?_ That seemed to put Phil at ease. Marginally.

Phil stayed silent, until John stood up.

"_Thank you_." He muttered so quietly that John was almost sure he missed it. John patted his shoulder as he left, and decided to suggest that Mrs. Hudson turn up the heat. The poor man was freezing.

John had to stifle a snicker as he strode away. He finally decided what this young man reminded him of: a wet scalded cat. The similarities were astounding.

"Poor dear's been through a bit much, don't you think?" Mrs. Hudson whispered. John nodded and murmured his agreement. "You know, I don't think he has anywhere to go…" John followed that thought to its obvious solution.

"You're thinking about putting him in the basement?" 221C had been empty for as long as John had lived in the flat, with exception to the time it had contained a pair of trainers. "Do you really think that's best?" John asked.

"Well, I'm sure it'll only be for a little while, until he decides what to do with himself." Mrs. Hudson cast a worried look towards her sitting room, which John could fully understand. The man's condition was troubling, and he didn't look to be the most morally placid person in the first place. John rested his hand on her arm.

"Let's give him a chance. He looks like he needs a proper break. And Sherlock and I are just upstairs if there's any trouble."

_Sherlock…now there's a thought…_John smiled to himself as he walked back to their flat. What on Earth would Sherlock make of the strange man downstairs?

~*~Yes, what _will _Sherlock make of Loki? Hmm…  
Sadly guys, I feel it is my duty to warn you all that I have school, and a job; both of which I have to write for on a weekly basis. This fic and all others are kinda on the backburner for me; I want to write fun stuff, but my work ethic keeps saying no. I write when I have a chance, but this fic is on semi-hiatus until…whenever. I'll probably keep posting the one-shots and drabbles I come up with in five minutes, so hopefully that'll tide you over.  
Thank you all for your patience, and _thank you_ for enjoying this story so much. Love you all.


	4. Mystery

~*~Let's all give a big round of applause to my beta, who was the one who nagged, bribed, and ultimately resorted to kidnapping in order for me to finish this chapter. I'm first to admit it took too long, but school and other plotbunnies and my "job" took over my life for a while. Also, Sherlock is damn hard to write. Maybe its because I am John Watson at heart, but Sherlock was tricky to get in to. Kudos to writers that write in his voice all the time.  
This is the chapter where my two favorite tall, dark, mysterious, and snarky British Boys meet. Some answers are given, but many more are raised.  
Warnings: nada  
Musical Muse: Sherlock and Avengers playlists  
Disclaimer: I'm nobody important and in no way related to any of the people behind Sherlock or Marvel.  
Beta-Babe Kat deserves homemade pizza, which is equivalent to true love in our world.

~*~Mystery~*~

Sherlock didn't know what to make of the strange man downstairs.

Originally, he paid him no mind, of course. Just another of Mrs. Hudson's charity cases, some incomprehensible moron picked up off the street, to be cleaned up and sent on his way. John obviously didn't register him as a threat because he didn't go to check his gun when he returned from the brief medical test he performed. John did inform him that the visitor would be staying, and moving into the empty basement flat, it was barely enough to spark Sherlock's interest. It would just be another ordinary idiot to be scared off, but hopefully not before Sherlock coerced a few experiments from him. John was becoming increasingly aware of Sherlock's attempts to test on him, and despite Sherlock's assurances that any poison were in such small amounts that he wouldn't be able to taste it under the marmalade, he was outright refusing to accept any food from Sherlock.

That all was before the young man came upstairs, allegedly to borrow some proper clothes. Sherlock had felt a twinge of annoyance when he was informed because no doubt John would rifle through his drawers and mess everything up, and there'd be a new smell to the flat that would bother his senses for hours. Hopefully, the man would come, would go, and that would be the end of it for today. There would be time later to investigate him, but not during such a crucial stage of testing. He didn't even look up from his research, so convinced was he that this man was beneath his notice.

John's chattering to the stranger was familiar to Sherlock, and he barely paid attention to what he was saying. He did note that John was doing the most of the talking, but that was no surprise. John had that sort of skill. Aside from a few murmurs, the new stranger was avoiding John's questions entirely. Not unusual in normal circumstances, but a bit odd that he was not responding well to John. In fact, the first inclination Sherlock had that the new flatmate was not who or what he implied he was came when he finally answered one of John's "harmless" questions.

"No, my family is not from around here." A simple phrase, a modest answer, and yet Sherlock stiffened as though he'd been slapped. Something was wrong - incredibly wrong - with the man's accent. That was enough for Sherlock to turn to observe, and that almost made things worse. Because nothing, nothing, was right about this character.

The way he held himself (wary, tense, expecting attack - severe back pain, holding himself gingerly - closed in, unwilling to open to John), the looseness of his hand (ready to grasp a short-range stabbing weapon, yet there were clearly none on his form), his facial structure (not European, not Asian, not any indigenous island tribe or indeed anything Sherlock had seen before), his expressions (tightly under control, searching for the right expression for the situation at hand - something Sherlock recognized from himself), and his eyes…

If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, Sherlock would assume this man did not have one. Ridiculous poetics aside, they were dangerous, flitting, and weary, surrounded by dark circles. They looked like John's after the rare nightmare.

Most disconcerting of all was how none of the indications flooding Sherlock's brain were adding up. This man was utterly defying everything Sherlock had learned over the years and was somehow doing it in a way that didn't alert the medical expert beside him. That was dangerous, if John didn't know what exactly he was getting into by befriending the man. Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

In short, a man with a million mysteries was going to be living downstairs for the foreseeable future. How thrilling.

John noticed Sherlock's gaze, of course. "Sherlock, this is Phil." Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh. That man was not a Phil. "Phil" glanced at him, away, then back again. Meeting Sherlock's ardent stare, he glared right back, a challenge in his harsh green eyes. Sherlock, being the mild expert that he was, detected a hint of questioning as well. Of course. He must have suspected his cover was detected in some way. Whatever and whoever "Phil" was, he was obviously unused to someone of Sherlock's genius.

On the peripheral, Sherlock could see John giving him a look. It was his "please don't cause trouble right now I'm begging you to behave" look. Normally Sherlock would ignore it, of course, but this time he had to admit that it would be dangerous to proceed without further information. He would wait and observe. There would certainly be much of that.

The impromptu staring contest was interrupted by John stepping between the two and proclaiming loudly, "That's just Sherlock, don't mind him. I'm sure he has a shirt or two you can borrow." Firmly grasping "Phil" by the arm, - Sherlock noticed they both flinched, interesting - he dragged him down the hall towards Sherlock's room. Sherlock pushed away the slight miffed emotion that John didn't even bother to ask for a shirt, and focused instead on what he had observed. Quite alarmingly, nothing was adding up.

Facial structure and accent aside, the way the man was behaving was of someone who had just been thrust into a new and alarming situation, and was unsure as to how to proceed. A simple change of scenery and mugging (Sherlock would bet his microscope that was his cover story) wasn't nearly enough to elicit that response. There was also the large amount of distrust that covered the man like a blanket of thorns, though Sherlock suspected that would go away soon enough with enough of John's influence. John could do that.

There was something else, tickling on the edge of Sherlock's mind. Something very familiar to him, not just from observation, but from personal experience. He couldn't pin down what it was just yet, but with enough time he would know...assuming the man stuck around. Sherlock dismissed any thought that the man would leave. Every signal that he could pin down pointed to the likelihood that the man would stay in 221C, where it was safe and welcoming. Sherlock would have plenty of time to learn this man because, unless he was utterly mistaken, he was just as curious about Sherlock as Sherlock was about him.

The familiar sound of steps brought John back to the kitchen. He was alone, and looking troubled. So, it seemed his companion was picking up the indications as well. Good.

John paused at the other end of the table. He tensed his arms and hands, looked over his shoulder, furrowed his brow. A lecture was coming.

"Look, Sherlock," he began, "I know you're not happy about this, but Phil's...had a bit of a rough time. I know you can tell." Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. Whatever "Phil" had gone through, it wasn't just a "rough time." "Just don't bother him overmuch, that's all I'm asking. All right?" John wasn't pleading, he knew better than to do that. A simple request got better results, but this time, Sherlock wouldn't obey no matter how John phrased it.

"You know I can't do that John." Sherlock strained his ears, listening for an approach and wondering how much he should tell John. He didn't have all the information yet, and not only was that dangerous, it made him uneasy. "He's not who he says he is and you know it." John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock cut him off. "You're a doctor, so tell me: do all of his injuries match his story? You're a soldier, you know when you meet someone like yourself. You instincts are telling you that he is more than what he appears, and you're not listening to them. Think, John. You. Know." John's eyes widened, and Sherlock became aware of how he was leaning over the table towards him, as he grew unusually agitated. Perhaps that would press John to re-examine what he had observed.

Sherlock was aware that he had perhaps said too much, and his presupposition was confirmed when the near-hallway squeaky step sang out an alarm. John didn't appear to notice, but Sherlock caught the barely-there sound of his own bedroom door closing soon after. He cocked an eyebrow. So it seemed "Phil" was rather sneaky. This would make finding more information much more difficult and much more enjoyable at the same time.

John took a deep breath and let it out. "Do you think he's dangerous?" he asked seriously, pinning his strong gaze on Sherlock. Sherlock was pleased to note that he wasn't questioning his call, or berating him for guessing his nagging feelings correctly. John was being very clever today, when he wasn't being his usual thick self.

"At the moment, no. He is aware of my suspicions, so be on your guard." If this man tried to do anything to John, to exploit the weakness Sherlock shouldn't feel about his doctor...He couldn't be too careful these days. He didn't think Moriarty would introduce a new player to the game, or one of his many enemies be able to send someone so unusual as a distraction, but he wasn't willing to take that risk, or risk this man being a threat in his own power. He was a skilled actor, that was obvious, but what he was hiding was unclear as of yet. But not for long.

John didn't get a chance to question him further, as deliberately loud steps echoed down the hall towards them. "Phil" appeared behind John, a small smile on his face and some of Sherlock's long-sleeved tees in his arms. "None of the trousers fit very well." The words were soft but his stare, firmly fixed on Sherlock, was hard. He knew Sherlock was on to him, and wanted to know how and why. Sherlock responded to his look with one of his own. He wouldn't tell, not today.

"That's all right." Whether John was now suspicious or not, he was still the open one, ready to help. Couldn't tell a lie worth a damn, but was good enough at avoiding the need to tell one. Sherlock noticed though, when "Phil" snapped his gaze to John, he still held the distrustful and questioning look. Maybe having John break down the walls with gentle questions wouldn't work after all. "At least you're a bit more set than you were."

As John led "Phil" to the stairs, Sherlock rose from the table. Taking up his violin, he began to play a simple melody he learned as a child, something simple he didn't need to pay attention to. He had other things to focus on. Like picking John's brain for details about "Phil's" injuries (doctor-patient confidentiality code be damned), ideas about how to leak more information from the quiet man, and once he discovered who the hell this man was, what was he going to do with him. There was an answer to who this man really was - there had to be, there was always an answer - and Sherlock would find it, no matter how impossible it was shaping up to be.

Clearly, he wouldn't be bored anymore.

~*~ So, I had Kat research Tom and Benny's sizes, just to be sure that Sherlock's pants wouldn't fit Loki. *sigh* It was a hard task, but someone had to do it.  
Please leave a review. Reviews feed bunnies.


	5. Illness

~*~So today (August 8) one year ago, this plotbunny was born. I sent a fic-sentence to Kat, she begged me for more, and six one-shots and five chapters later, here we are. I'm enjoying myself, how bout you?  
Now comes the part we've all been waiting for: The Confrontation Between Loki and Sherlock. Damn both of them, they're hard to write. Also, miserable!Loki makes me happy.  
Warnings: some squick, be warned.  
Musical Muse: The Wizard of Oz, don't judge.  
Disclaimer: I own a year-old plotbunny that's getting cake later, but not any cake-less fictional men.  
Props to Kat, who helped breed this bunny and actually got this chapter back to me within reasonable time. Cake for her too.

~*~Illness~*~

Sounds drifted through Loki's ears, slowly forming themselves into recognizable voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, exactly, but at the moment, that didn't matter. Loki was a bit more preoccupied with feeling as if he were going to die at any moment.

Tremors wracked his thin body, harsh shakes that came from his very core. He was horrifically cold, the coldest he'd been in a very long time, and yet was sweating hard enough to soak the fabric beneath his head. Nausea filled his torso and made his head ache as though Thor's hammer was pounding on it. He'd felt worse before, but only just, and that knowledge didn't make his current situation any better, because the last time he'd felt like his...he shivered again, trying not to remember that. Surely this wasn't more of the same, surely that would never happen again. Once was too much.

One of the half-familiar voices grew nearer, and a sensation of something moving over his forehead made him start. A slight weight was removed and replaced with something cold that barely made him feel better. More pressing was the knowledge that he wasn't alone, and someone was taking care of him.

Strangely enough, that did not make him feel any better. He instead felt unease, that whoever was around him in his weakened state would bring him harm. He wanted to get up, fight back, send away whoever was there, but even thinking about moving caused his stomach to cramp harshly. He wanted to relax into whatever soft surface he was lying on, but the shaking in his limbs was too strong for him to settle. He wanted rest, but he was in too much agony and too uneasy.

Whoever had put the cold fabric on his forehead moved away, and the part of his mind that wasn't screaming in agony identified the likely owner of the footsteps as the Pet Warrior of the Clever One. The kind lady who took him in had said he was a doctor, and he may act like one, but Loki knew better – once a warrior, always a warrior, and he could not be trusted. Neither could the Clever One – he was almost as dangerous as the Warrior, but in an entirely different way. He was far too observant. He saw too much. Loki wasn't safe with either of them.

Normally he would never have chosen their furniture to collapse upon, but the situation was entirely out of his hands. The lack of his magic, drained to near emptiness, had eaten away at him more than he'd like to admit. The aches and pains he had arrived with had intensified, and the dizzy spells and general unease grew stronger. Something was wrong, that much was clear, but he was unable to discern what it was before he found himself unable to think clearly at all.

At some point, as he lay on the bare mattress that was the only bit of furniture in the basement flat, a tremor attack shook him to his bones. He must have made a noise of some sort, because the kind lady rushed down to his side. After fussing over his prone form, she insisted on running upstairs for the healer.

That was the last thing Loki wished for. He did not trust the easy smiles and meaningless comments, for he could see the hard truth behind the soft exterior. At least the cold dark one was honest about his suspicions of Loki's true character. He could not trust the soldier-in-hiding. He would not have him near him if he were going to be unable to fight back. He'd rather leave the sanctuary of Madame Hudson's home than risk being uncovered by someone so dangerous.

He had made it to the entryway before collapsing into darkness – only to wake up in the den of the dangerous ones. He would do something about it, except at the moment his insides gave a very troubling quake. What he wouldn't give for a healing stone about now.

He tried to fight down the rush of bile he could feel climbing his throat, but his choked gagging was in vain. Seconds before he vomited, someone grabbed his head and held it up. Thankfully, something was there to catch the waste, but he had no time to appreciate it. Once he was done, shivers erupted all over his body, and he collapsed back onto the cushions. The one holding him up – the healer, it had to be the healer – released him and covered him with blankets. He was too tired to fight them off.

Shivers, aches, and tiredness were all Loki knew for the next several hours. Occasionally he was aware of someone coaxing strong tea past his lips, or concerned words spoken over his head. He tried to fight his fatigue away, to push himself back to consciousness, but he could not. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want anyone near him in his weakened state. He didn't trust anyone around him.

If his magic was at full strength, he could protect himself. This was the Tesseract's revenge, he was sure of it. She took his powers away, dumped him among enemies, and as a final stroke of revenge she crippled him to the point of helplessness. He was physically feeling the loss of her power, and he was paying dearly for disappointing her. He couldn't discern if the loss of his magic was due to her meddling or from his own weakness, but he was feeling that loss most keenly as well. He had always felt his own power, and without it, Loki felt as weak and helpless as a kitten. And he _hated it._

After his most recent bout of vomiting, Loki felt barely well enough to actually take in and register his surroundings. He cracked his eyes open with effort, but his view of the room was hindered by the clever one who was sitting before him. Hunched forward, palms pressed together beneath his chin, he was staring at Loki with an unnervingly pierce gaze. Loki tried to glare back, but it was rather ineffective.

Sherlock, if that was honestly his name, glanced over his shoulder, presumably for the soldier-doctor. Not seeing him in sight, he turned back to Loki with a focused frown.

"You know, I consider myself an expert in recognizing withdrawal in its various states. While your symptoms are quite similar to hard drug usage, your increased state of weakness and the severity of your disorders indicate something different. That, as well as your most unusual behavior and overall countenance, leads me to believe you are in no way who you say you are."

Loki found himself unable to respond. It wasn't his weakness stopping him, it was mild shock and some horror. If this man was implying what he thought, then somehow he already knew, or at least suspected, part of Loki's true identity. To be certain, that was not a good thing. He tried to sit up, but the shakiness in his arms stopped him, so he settled for a glare of his own. Sherlock seemed unaffected.

"Logic would state that my suspicions, particularly the ones that imply a certain _alienness_ about you, are unfounded and merely fictitious on my part, but given the rate of recurrence of these deductions, I am unusually inclined to believe them." Loki stayed absolutely still, the growing dread pinning him to the spot. It couldn't be...

"But that is not important right now." The too-observant man sat back quite suddenly. "What is important, to me, is that none of my _other _suspicions are true." There was now a slight edge of danger to his stature now, and Loki wondered if it would be better for him to swallow his pride and call for help, or if he should just hope whatever threat Sherlock would dish out would be verbal only. After the events of the previous week, he now knew not to underestimate the power of mortals.

"As long as I continue to believe that you're only residing in this flat to recuperate and seek refuge, you and I will have no problems. I won't be telling any official parties about your whereabouts, and won't go out of my way to drive you out." Loki thought this was rather fair, especially giving what he had overheard about this man's habits. And if he was willing to stay silent about Loki's whereabouts, that was all the more good. But surely there must be a catch...

Of course he was correct. His opposite's voice suddenly turned icy and his eyes turned hard. "However, should I no longer find sufficient evidence to support that theory, you will find me a very different human being." His face completely changed, into something Loki half-recognized. "If John – or Mrs. Hudson – comes to any harm because of you, you will find out exactly why you should not underestimate us."

Despite the concern (and perhaps some latent illness) growing in his chest, Loki felt a slight bit of approval. He knew a good threat when he heard one, and leaving the details of the infliction vague was a very effective design. Well, perhaps effective for the uninitiated, but Loki had been exposed to enough intimidation techniques to be unaffected by these empty words. He wasn't foolish enough to ignore the warning entirely, even if he knew little of what this man could do to him. It was nothing like previous warnings he had received, of what pains his failure would bring to him, but he was still warned enough. For now.

But, he had other concerns at the moment. It may have taken him some time to get his bearings, given the unexpectedness of the assault and his own illness, but he knew this game well. A weakness was exposed, and if there were something Loki could manipulate, he would naturally do so.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," Loki spoke quietly, with a bit of crack to his voice, but he knew, given the closeness and intense focus directed at him, that the detective could hear every word, "I had no idea you _cared_ so much." He smiled quite charmingly at the Indigo Child. "Do be sure to let the Doctor know of your professional findings. I look forward to hearing what he thinks of the matter."

A frown appeared between the eyes of the mind. He had struck a delicate point. Would the Doctor believe the words of his friend, or disregard them for the sake logic? Also, what would the good soldier think of this pathetic attempt to protect him? Perhaps the Clever One wasn't as clever as he thought. He was clearly not at the level of dealing with _gods_.

"That's not your concern," was the weak reply. Loki internally smiled in success. That was a pathetic non-answer that did nothing to deter him. There would be no stopping Loki now.

He saw a physical stiffness come over dark man as he tried to reign himself back to the safety of his own mind. He could see everything this man tried to hide, as clear as day. Though it seemed, if he was capable of actually uncovering some of what Loki himself was hiding, he was not alone in observing what has supposed to be secreted away. In all, it seemed the clever one would be a worthy opponent after all.

One of the subjects of their little chat entered the room at that moment. Loki wondered if his arrival had been what prompted the other retreating into his shell again, but in any case, his appearance announced the end of their discussion. The Soldier-Doctor smiled at the unlikely pair, and remarked how pleased he was to see Loki awake. The Observant One might believe he needed protection, but Loki knew he needed no such thing.

Loki settled back, watching as Sherlock stood and began hovering around his flatmate in the kitchen. More observation was needed, to fully understand the dynamics of the pair. More weaknesses could be exposed. He still needed to recover the effects of the Tesseract's parting gift.

Oddly enough, he felt better than he had in days. The game was on.

~*~ What's gonna happen next?! Find out later!


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